


The Nature of Wishes

by trustingHim17



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:22:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27239500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingHim17/pseuds/trustingHim17
Summary: It’s a full time job keeping Holmes safe. What if he got a bit of help with that after Switzerland? AU
Comments: 5
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

I tried to hide it from him.

“I want to stop in that shop for a moment. It won’t take long.”

“Someone has been behind us for a while. We should turn to make sure he is not following us.”

“Have you not tried this shortcut?”

These and other perfectly logical excuses served to deflect his forming question, diverting his curiosity about why I wanted to change what he had been planning, and the event usually passed unnoticed. There was nothing to catch his attention when he was so accustomed to me browsing bookstores or needing supplies for my medical bag, and some of it may even have been written off to something that had changed during the years he had been away.

“How can you need more bandages already? You have had barely any patients this week.”

Alright, so maybe it occasionally caught his attention, but what else could I do? He would send me to Bedlam if I told him the real reason I sometimes changed our—his—path.

“Holmes?” He glanced at me on his way out the door, and I limped across the room to hand him some bills. “Would you stop at the luthier on your way home and get a couple of strings? I am nearly out of spares, and it is not far off your route.”

Confusion crossed his face as he wondered why my spares were running low—he had not heard me play in a while—but he merely nodded. I concealed my sigh of relief until he was safely out of the flat.

He commented that night about a page missing from the paper, but seemed to accept my shrug of indifference. He need not know about the omnibus accident that had injured several and killed one, nor did I see a reason for him to discover that it had occurred just where he would have been standing…if I had not sent him to the luthier for extra viola strings.

It did not happen often, but I knew to listen when it did: a niggling, undefinable _knowing_ that he should not be in a certain place at a certain time. A more concrete version of the inducing I had been able to do my entire life, the results of that wish had saved him or both of us from inconvenience or worse many times, and I had no plans to ignore whenever it chimed.

I also had no plans to tell Holmes exactly why I did the things I occasionally did, though that got harder as time wore on.

“I think he’s lying, Holmes.”

My friend’s gaze snapped up to look at me, and I hid most of my expression in my journal. He glanced at the door, then back at me, frowning.

“What gives you that impression?”

I hesitated, trying to find a valid reason—or at least one he would accept as valid—but shook my head as I came up empty.

“I don’t know,” I replied. _I can’t tell you_ , I meant. “Just…I think he’s lying. He has not turned his back on the gang. He is going to double cross you.”

His frown deepened as he processed my words. I had induced a few hazardous situations over the years when he had lacked the data to note the danger, but before now, I had never told him from the safety of our flat. I would not have this time, but he had left me no choice when he announced the intention to leave the flat without me.

“At least let me come with you,” I added when I saw that he could not turn down the information the man had offered.

He hesitated, considering. He had wanted to go alone, as that had a better chance at remaining unnoticed, but I knew he trusted me enough to take my word when I said something was off. He also knew that now that I had said something, I would likely come rather he agreed or not—and whether he ever saw me or not. There had been many occasions when he had refused to let me accompany him and I had quietly followed, not showing myself unless and until something went wrong.

It was probably this and not my words that made him agree, but it made no difference to me. If he would not avoid the alley like the trap it was, I would at least be there to guard his back.

And I was glad I had done so, even when he continued looking at me curiously a few hours later. His contact had indeed staged an ambush, and it had only been my refusal to go more than a couple of steps into the alley that had made the ambush fail.

“How did you know?” he asked me when we were back in our rooms, settled in our chairs before the fire.

I barely glanced up from my novel. “I already told you. I didn’t.”

Silence fell, and I could feel him staring at me. I kept my gaze on the page, affecting an air of disinterest.

“What are you hiding from me?”

I looked up as I let a chuckle escape, hoping he could not tell that it was faked. “You have said many times that I can hide nothing from you. I told you, I have no idea what about it made me cautious. It just did. Maybe it had to do with his insistence on meeting in that particular alley.”

He frowned at me but let it go, and while he studied me for a few days, another case captured his attention soon enough. I carefully avoided his notice for months, waiting for the incident to fade from memory.


	2. Chapter 2

“Give me a moment, and I’ll come with you!”

Just over a year after the ambush, I could not chance warning him beforehand, but a warning had chimed within me when he said something about going to the Yard. The way the weather was changing meant I had been hoping for a quiet evening in my chair, but this took precedence. I would much rather spend a painful afternoon accompanying him on an errand than lose him through my desire to stay inside, and my hesitance at him discovering my secret would not stop me from redirecting his path and delaying him as needed.

He raised an eyebrow but hesitated in the doorway long enough for me to grab my cane, and I followed when he hurried out the door.

“I am just picking up a case file from the Yard,” he told me as we dodged through the crowd to hail the slowly passing cab.

I shrugged off his question. “I wanted to get out of the flat. What is the case?”

He frowned at me—probably noting my limp—but answered as the cab bounced down the street, and I listened to the details of one of Lestrade’s cold cases while I scanned our surroundings. We had avoided an attempted mugging by taking a cab, but we were not completely in the clear. Something much bigger was looming; I just had to pinpoint it.

Whatever it was, it was not related to the cab, and I relaxed, keeping Holmes talking about the case with several pointed questions. The cabbie came to a stop in front of the Yard after a few minutes, and I followed Holmes into the building, carefully checking our surroundings for anything wrong.

“There you are, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade’s voice rang out, and I looked over from scanning the hallways to see him just coming out of his office. “I was just beginning to think you would not make it today.”

Holmes answered with something about losing track of time, following Lestrade back to the desk, but I looked down the hall again, more concerned with what the non-uniformed man was doing outside of the superintendent’s office.

Lestrade rummaged through the files on his desk, looking for the one Holmes sought, and the man wandered slowly up the now-empty hall, checking doors and keeping one hand near a bulge in his pocket.

The knowledge slammed into me just as the man looked up the hallway. Recognition crossed his face at the same time as a cruel grin, and his wandering stride gained purpose.

Lestrade found his file and started discussing it with Holmes, and I glanced at them, then back to the ruffian quickly growing closer. Holmes was the primary target, and he would say I should alert him. Lestrade was the secondary target, and he would probably say I should lock all three of us in the office and wait for the other officers to handle it. I was manna…and I did not know how either of those options would end.

“Better the devil you know,” a commander had once told me.

I closed the office door, locked it, and pocketed the key.

Exclamations of surprise came from the office, but I ignored them, gripping my cane and moving away from the door.

He pulled the revolver from his pocket when he saw me pocket the key, and I lunged forward, unsheathing the sword in my cane as I sought to reach him before he could fire.

The hallway seemed to elongate, the distance between us growing as that barrel slowly brought its focus on me. For a moment, I thought that perhaps I had been wrong, that I had not known how this would end.

Then the weapon clicked, misfiring. The flat of my sword shoved his weapon upwards as he tried to shoot again, and the bullet lodged in the ceiling. I caught the gun against my hilt and twisted, sending the revolver skittering along the floor. Several officers hurried out of the next hallway, and I relaxed out of battle-readiness as the door slammed opened behind me.

“Watson!” Holmes’ voice nearly echoed in the hall, rife with panic after hearing the gunshot.

My sword slid into its sheath, and I leaned on the cane as I turned around to see Holmes barrel out of the office, Lestrade barely a step behind him.

“Watson!” he said again, though the name carried a bit less panic as he saw me calmly standing in front of where four officers wrestled the blackguard into a pair of cuffs.

“How many times have you picked that lock, Holmes?” I asked with a smirk. It usually took far longer than ten seconds for him to pick a lock for the first time, and I hoped the comment would distract him from the many questions I could see in his gaze.

I had no such luck, however. He strode closer, checking me for injury. The panic slowly drained from his gaze as he saw I was unhurt, but he rested faintly trembling hands on my shoulders, fighting for words. I had not sought to scare him—them—so badly, but a scare was better than the alternative.

“That was a foolish thing to do, Doctor,” Lestrade remonstrated quietly when Holmes remained silent.

“It was the best plan I had at the time,” I replied as Holmes slowly relaxed. “He was not after me.” They did not need to know that the man would have shot me without the misfire. I had known he would not shoot me, and the man had only aimed at me because I guarded the key.

Holmes had removed his hands from my shoulders as I spoke, but his gaze sharpened, and I cursed myself, thinking quickly.

“How did you know he was not after you?”

“He did not shoot me on sight,” I replied simply, and Holmes did not quite smother a shiver. “He saw me from the other end of the hall. He wanted the two of you. He just recognized me.” I never enjoyed using his regard for me against him, but I had long ago learned that, if I could not deflect the question, the best way to change a subject that had captured Holmes’ attention was to make it too uncomfortable to continue.

He frowned at me, possibly recognizing what I was trying to do. “You should have said something.”

I shrugged. “It ended well enough, and you got to practice picking the lock on Lestrade’s door. Did you get the file you wanted?”

His frown deepened, but he made no reply until we left the Yard a few minutes later.

“Do not do that again,” he said seriously, staring through the sidewalk though he refused to go further than arm’s length from me. I said nothing.

“Watson?”

“I can’t promise that, Holmes, and you know it. I was in no danger.”

He scowled. “He had a gun, and you were alone and unarmed. How can you say you were not in danger?”

“I was not unarmed, and I was only alone for a few seconds.” He finally looked up at me, and I could see the memory of panic lingering in his gaze. He had barreled out of that office expecting to find me bleeding on the floor.

“You have said many times that a sword against a gun creates a corpse with a sword. Those few seconds were all it would have taken.”

I hesitated, weighing my words and how I wanted to answer. “I was not referring to the sword,” I finally replied. “I was armed. Maybe one day I will tell you with what.”

He tried many times over the next several hours to get me to elaborate, but I refused, and he eventually dropped the topic—though I heavily suspected he knew something was up and was just waiting for a clue as to what it was.


	3. Chapter 3

“Don’go.”

I forced the words out, more concerned with keeping him home, keeping him safe, than how my words slurred together with fatigue. I had been drifting back to sleep when he expressed a desire to leave, and I fought to open my eyes, blindly managing to grab his sleeve before he moved out of reach.

My bleary gaze met worried grey eyes. “I will not be long, and your fever will climb again if we do not restock on fever reducer.”

Even after so many years, I still did not want him to know the results of that case so long ago, and I kept a firm grip on his sleeve, shaking my head at him. I had to keep him here. I knew which pharmacy he would custom, and I could not let him walk that street today. I could only hope he would write off any implications to the fever. He was too logical to seriously entertain the idea for long, but enough clues would eventually bring a realization.

“Mrs. Hudson is away until tonight,” he reminded me, still trying to get me to let go, “and we need to keep your fever down.”

He tried to pull his sleeve from my grasp, and I gripped him tighter.

“No. Send som’ne. You stay here.” He had to stay. If he left, he might never return, and I tried to think of a way to prevent him from leaving when I was too ill to stand.

“I do not trust Billy going to the pharmacy. Let me go, Watson. I will not be long.”

I shook my head again, keeping my grip on his sleeve even as I relaxed into the settee, fighting to keep my eyes open. My head ached from the fever, and I wanted to go back to sleep, but I had to stay awake until I knew he would stay here.

“We are out of both fever reducer and the supplies to compound more,” he continued when I remained silent. “I need to go while you are still lucid.”

I continued shaking my head in a mute refusal, but his words gave me an idea. I considered it for only a moment before implementing it. I hated to use his worry against him, but by refusing to listen to me, he was leaving me no other option. It was not often that I worked to avoid something truly dangerous, but something much worse than simply inconvenient would result if he walked that street today.

I relaxed further into the cushions, letting the pain in my head show on my face.

“Stay…” I let my voice fade, then affected another attempt. “Stay here,” I said weakly, breaking eye contact with a slow blink. It was extremely difficult to reopen my eyes after that slow blink, and I know he noticed.

“It is alright, Watson. I will not be more than a few minutes.”

I tightened my grip but let my eyes glaze over, slowly refocusing to look through him, and the worry in his gaze grew.

“We need to lower your fever.”

I refused to loosen my grip on his sleeve, but I made no answer, flitting my gaze around the room. If he did not want Billy going to the pharmacy, he could send an Irregular with a note. The idea needed to be his own instead of my suggestion, however, and I waited for him to make that decision. The shop owner would help the child find the right packet, but Holmes needed to stay here.

“Watson?”

His other hand brushed my forehead when I remained silent, and I shied from the touch.

“H’ms?” I muttered, the blanket falling aside as I craned my neck to look around the room. “Where…?”

“I am right here, Watson.” His hand wrapped around where I gripped his sleeve, and I frowned at being the cause of the worry in his voice. I could not let him leave, however, and I kept my gaze unfocused, staring through a picture on a nearby table. Holmes was not the only one who knew how to successfully malinger, and while I hated lying to him, I could make an exception to prevent him from walking that street today. I had seen far too many patients over the years to be unable to copy them.

“Where’s H’ms?” I asked the picture.

Ignoring Holmes’ attempts to get my attention, I paused for a moment, then frowned again, as if the picture had answered. “But…said wou’n’ leave me ‘lone.”

His fingers brushed my forehead again, trying to check my fever, and I flinched into the cushions, raising the arm not latched onto his sleeve as if I expected him to strike me.

“No!”

He nearly started at my cry, withdrawing his hand, and I glanced towards the door as if looking for him to reenter the room. He watched me, unsure what to do, and I slowly lowered my arm.

“Want H’ms,” I muttered, my gaze still searching blankly.

“I am right here, Watson,” he repeated, again squeezing my hand, and this time I stilled, looking around the room as if searching for where the voice had come.

“H’ms?”

“You are not alone, Watson.”

I frowned again but settled into the cushions, affecting a shiver as I weakly tugged on the blanket with one hand. “Where?” I asked the room. “Can’t see you.”

“I know,” he answered quietly, settling several blankets around me though I refused to release his sleeve, “but I am still here.”

“Stay?”

“Of course.”

I let my eyes drift closed but kept my grip on his sleeve, and I felt him moving around. The scratching of a pen a moment later coincided with a knock on the door, and I used the noise to stay conscious.

“Enter,” he called, just loudly enough to be heard through the door.

“Mr. Holmes?” Tim Minor’s voice asked cautiously as the door opened. “Did that signal mean come up?”

“It did,” he replied quickly. “I need you to run to the pharmacy. Give this note to the shop owner. He will find what I need, and here is money to pay for it. Keep the change.”

“Yes, sir.” Footsteps walked back toward the door but paused before leaving. “Will the doctor be alright?”

“Of course he will, Tim. I just cannot leave him right now, and we are out of fever reducer.”

The door closed behind him, and Holmes slowly readjusted in his chair. A dripping wet cloth landed gently on my face a moment later, and I unintentionally flinched.

“Cold,” I muttered, eyes still closed but unable to pretend to sleep after flinching. I twisted, feebly trying to move away from the cloth, and succeeded in dumping it to the cushion below me.

He put it back a moment later, however. “I know it is,” he said quietly, “but we need to bring your fever down.”

“H’ms?”

“I am not going anywhere, Watson. Go back to sleep.”

I frowned but stopped struggling, drifting into a true sleep moments later.

“He was there, Mr. Holmes! I swear it.”

Tim’s voice woke me, and I held still, listening as I tried to go back to sleep.

“Hush. You will wake Watson. I believe you, but he is supposed to be on the continent right now. What was he doing?”

“Nothing much. Looked like he was scanning faces, but he never moved from his corner.”

Silence fell, and I felt Holmes’ gaze on me.

The man they were discussing had a massive grudge against Holmes, had vowed to kill him if he ever saw my friend again. Holmes did not believe in luck, but I knew he recognized what he had avoided by staying with me. I just hoped he ascribed it to chance instead of foresight.

“Thank you, Tim,” he finally said. I heard the pen scratch again. “Take this note to Mycroft, then you can go back to your spot outside.”

The door clicked shut, and silence reigned for a long moment before Holmes sighed. He said nothing, however, and, unable to go back to sleep for now, I opened my eyes.

He noticed immediately, of course. “Watson?”

I blinked several times, and worried grey eyes slowly came into focus as he leaned over me. I hated waking to find someone leaning over me—even him—but my arm moving with his distracted me. I glanced down instead of scowling at him, realizing I had not released his sleeve even in sleep.

“Sorry,” I muttered, dropping his sleeve.

Ignoring the apology for what he thought I could not control, he merely studied me, and I soon fidgeted under that keen gaze.

“Holmes?” I asked when he continued staring.

He brushed the question aside but turned, pouring me a glass of water and stirring a packet of fever reducer into it.

“How are you feeling?”

I frowned, pondering the uncharacteristic question. Normally, he simply deduced whatever he wanted to know.

“Tired,” I answered around sips. “I’ll be alright, Holmes. It’s just a fever.”

He continued staring at me, and I waited for the question of why I had not wanted him to leave, but it never came. When he let me go back to sleep without asking, I allowed the hope that logic had won over evidence.

After all, precognition was a wish in a child’s story, not something anyone could actually do.


	4. Chapter 4

_Danger!_

I nearly stumbled as the warning slammed into me, forgetting all about the errand I had been planning to run as I gripped the wall to stay upright. What was it? Where? When?

Nothing. The pulsing warning only said _soon_ , and I hurried to Holmes’ desk, searching for anything I could use to find him. A note scribbled and pinned to the side served as a reminder that he had a meeting with Shinwell Johnson on Regent Street shortly before noon, and I glanced at the clock.

The hands pointed to half past eleven. I rushed out the door, grabbing my sword cane and revolver on the way.

Ignoring my leg’s complaints, I sprinted up the street, not daring to take a cab that could get caught in a crowd but needing to reach him in time. I knew nothing other than that he was in grave danger, and I berated myself for letting him go alone. I knew Gruner would do anything to stop Holmes. I should not have let my friend out of my sight while this case was ongoing.

I slowed as I reached Regent Street, scanning faces and alleyways. The pulsing warning said I had only minutes to act, and without a more specific warning, I had no way of knowing in which alley they had decided to meet.

A commotion sounded up ahead. _There!_

Dodging through the crowd, I locked my gaze on the small knot of people fighting on the sidewalk and resumed my sprint, refusing to slow even as I called apologies when I bumped into others.

Two men attacked Holmes with Penang-lawyers, and for a moment, he seemed to be holding his own. As I drew closer, however, he knocked one man aside only for the other’s stick to solidly impact his head.

My friend crumpled to the ground, and I let out a scream.

“Holmes!”

The blackguards broke off their attack and sprinted into a nearby restaurant, but I focused more on where Holmes lay on the cobblestone than on catching the men that had attacked him, desperately hoping that I had not been too late.

“Holmes!”

I feared the worst for a moment, but he roused as I kneeled next to him, glancing at me with a hint of confusion that quickly cleared.

“Holmes?” I asked quietly, checking him over as I tried to hide my panting. I would pay for that run later.

He flicked a hand, brushing off the question as he pushed himself upright and rubbed where the stick had impacted his head. “I am alright. It just stunned me.” He paused, then focused on me. “What are you doing here?”

“Never mind that,” I answered, using the excuse of checking him over to prevent him from seeing my expression. “I’m just glad I was. Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Of course.” He tried to stand but swayed, sinking back to the ground, and only the small footsteps pounding the cobblestones behind me prevented me from voicing a word I had learned at the docks.

“You sure are fast, Doctor! Is—uh, oh. Mr. Holmes?”

I glanced over to see Tim Minor—now Middle Tim, with the addition of yet another Tim the previous week—standing behind me and staring at where Holmes sat on the ground.

“Get us a cab, Tim. Charing Cross is only a couple of blocks away.”

Holmes muttered something.

“What was that?” I asked.

“Baker Street,” he answered more clearly, flinching as his searching fingers found the knot on his scalp. “There is no need to go to hospital.”

I frowned at him. “Holmes, you have a concussion at the least, and Charing Cross is closest.”

“No hospital,” he insisted, focusing a pain-bleared gaze on me. “I will be fine after some rest, and I will rest better at home.”

I hesitated, staring at him, and he stared back, alert despite the pain I could see in the corners of his eyes.

“Alright,” I relented after a moment, “but we still need a cab. Tim?”

“Right.” He trotted off, coming back barely a minute later, and I finally pulled my gaze away from Holmes as a cab pulled up behind me.

“Help me stand him up,” I said to Tim as I draped Holmes’ arm over my shoulder. He helped me steady Holmes, but we barely got my friend to his feet before my leg gave out, dumping me on the ground with an involuntary cry. Tim stumbled but supported Holmes’ weight alone, and I struggled to regain my feet.

“Watson?”

I shook my head, denying that anything was truly wrong as I ignored the way he studied me, his gaze no less keen for the pounding headache he must have.

“Can I be of service?”

A young man that had been part of the crowd around the attack stood above me, offering his hand to help me to my feet, and I took it after only a moment’s hesitation, thanking him as I did so.

“That was quite a sprint,” the man said conversationally as he and Tim helped Holmes into the cab. “Did you ever compete?”

I did not answer immediately, leaning heavily on my stick as I watched Holmes for signs of further injury. “I played rugby in school,” I finally replied shortly, unwilling to give Holmes any more information about how I came to arrive where he was under attack.

The young man grinned. “I should have known that. You still run like a rugby player.”

He watched for a moment, making sure I needed no more help, then nodded a farewell and disappeared into the crowd. Tim disappeared as well before I could offer him a ride, and I worriedly kept an eye on Holmes throughout the slow ride home. I had been in time, yes, but that had been far too close.

* * *

At his insistence, we published an account in the evening paper heavily exaggerating the attack, but even knowing that the account was false, I still watched my friend carefully over that long evening. A minor concussion meant he would need to stay awake for several hours, and I let him think I was monitoring his concussion symptoms instead of assuring myself that I had not been too late. What-ifs ran through my mind, and I would need to banish those if I wanted to sleep tonight.

I already knew I would not be able to banish them completely, however—not when every blink brought the image of him collapsed in the street, unmoving.

We made quite a pair that evening, he with his concussion and I limping heavily from the two-mile sprint to reach him. I refused to answer when he asked why I was limping, but I worried that his keen gaze had already noticed more than I wanted him to know.

I was right to worry. It came to a head the next morning.

“You are precognizant.”

I nearly spit out my coffee, looking over at where he sat in his chair, watching me.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You are precognizant,” he repeated.

I frowned at him and put down my cup to limp across the room.

“Are you feeling dizzy?” I asked, checking him for fever as I would if he had accused me of any other supernatural power.

He swatted my hand away, a smirk battling a scowl for dominance.

“There is no reason for you to sprint from Baker Street to Café Royal unless you expected something to happen,” he insisted.

“What makes you think I started at the flat?” I asked, as if humoring him. I continued checking him for complications of his concussion. “I told you I had a few errands to do yesterday.”

“Young Tim was quite willing to tell me about how fast you ran. He had never seen you sprint like that, and it amazed him that you left him behind.”

I made no answer, examining him, and he frowned at me.

“Stop pretending you believe me to be ill,” he chided. “Your acting got better after Switzerland, but I can still see through you. How did you know to go to the café?”

My evaluation was finished anyway, and I rolled my eyes at him, still trying to throw him off track. It would be hard to protect him from a padded cell. “I didn’t. I just happened to be there at the right time to hear the commotion. Precognition is a child’s fairy tale, and you know it.”

He huffed at me. “So is night vision, yet here we are,” he shot back.

I stared at him, sitting heavily in my chair. “Night vision?” I repeated.

He squirmed in his seat. “I should not have said that,” he backtracked.

“So, that was your wish.”

I watched him, waiting for him to connect the pieces of information, but he just stared back at me.

“My wish?” he asked.

“One of our first clients after you returned,” I replied. “You refused money, and he claimed he had a genie and offered you one wish, anything you wanted. You scoffed and stormed out, but he said you had wished silently. How did you not tie a sudden ability to see in the dark to that?”

He fidgeted again. “It did not notice it immediately,” he finally admitted, “and I have always been able to see better than you after dark. By the time I acknowledged that it was unusual, it had been long enough that I did not recall his offer. You started acting strangely soon after.”

And he had been more focused on deducing what had changed with me than finding the source of excellent night vision. I considered that for a moment, finally deciding not to comment. “Why did you choose night vision?”

He shook his head. “That was the case where we were attacked in the cave,” he answered quietly. “I remember wishing I had been able to warn you before you were injured.”

I smothered a chuckle. We had wished for exactly the same thing: to protect the other. The only difference had been that I had taken it seriously and phrased accordingly, while he had denied the illogical.

He caught my amusement, raising an eyebrow at me. “Why did you ask for precognition?”

“I didn’t,” I replied with a smirk. “This was right after you returned. What do you think was still on my mind and would have heavily influenced my wish?”

He thought for barely a moment before realization and guilt flashed in his eyes. “You wished to protect me.”

“Of course.”

“Why did you hide it?”

I scowled at him. “Why do you think? You would never have believed me, and it would be impossible to do anything from a padded cell.” He opened his mouth to protest, but I continued over him. “It took you nearly ten years to figure it out. You cannot say that you would have taken me seriously if I had told you I could occasionally tell the future.”

The protest died unspoken, and he stared at me. “How often have you foreseen something and changed our path to avoid it?”

I leaned back in my chair, debating whether I wanted to answer.

“Watson?”

“Rephrase your question,” I said instead of answering.

He frowned but did as I asked. “How many times have you saved my life?”

I thought about that. “At least four times, maybe five or more.” He raised an eyebrow, and I elaborated. “Viola strings, ambush in an alley, intruder at the Yard, the man at the pharmacy, and maybe the incident yesterday.”

He did not answer immediately, working to recall the incidents I listed. “Why only maybe yesterday?”

“I do not know how far they were planning to go with their attack.”

He nodded, accepting my reasoning, then hesitantly admitted, “I do not remember an attack at a pharmacy.”

“Good.” He scowled at me, and I chuckled. “I was sick, and I refused to let you leave to pick up more fever reducer. You ended up sending Tim, and he came back with the news that the smuggler that had vowed to kill you was loitering near the pharmacy. If I had let you go that day, you might not have returned.”

He stared at me. “You were malingering?”

“Some of it,” I replied apologetically. “You wanted to leave while I was lucid, and I could not tell you why I would not let you leave. My fever was high, but not quite that high.”

He scowled at me again, more for show than out of any real irritation. “Tell me next time,” he voiced. _Tell me instead of scaring me._

“Will you listen to me?” He nodded. “Then I will tell you,” I promised, “though I do not always get a lot of notice. I had barely enough time to reach you yesterday.”

He frowned thoughtfully, but I ignored him, glancing over at the table as I debated whether the coffee I had left there was worth getting up to retrieve.

It was not, I decided, and I opened my mouth to ask a question when he stood and crossed the room himself.

“Thank you,” I said quietly when he handed me the mug a minute later.

He waved me off, seating himself and voicing a question about how the precognition worked, but I had no answer for him. All I knew was that it did, and I would listen when it sounded. He proved my point when he could not explain how he saw a faded green in pitch black, and the conversation eventually turned to examples. After hiding the abilities from the other for nearly a decade, those carried our discussion through most of the day.

Which was good, because his original plan of surveillance work today would have crossed the path of a certain smuggler with a grudge.

I did not think he needed to know that.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always greatly appreciated! :)


End file.
